The Lottery: Cogs in the Machine
by sdjr616
Summary: Years later, Mr. Summers begins to wonder the meaning behind the town ritual. Based on the short story 'The Lottery' by Shirley Jackson.


The sun was just beginning to shine on the fresh dew of the early summer morning. A brown wood finch was busy scavenging for seeds near the bush at the far end of the yard, probably trying to get food for its young.

"God, I hate this time of year," said Joe as he was awakening. "For how nice it is, I can't even get myself up to enjoy it anymore."

"Get over yourself," Eira replied. "You complain every year, its never going away. Just go to work."

Joe slowly gets up from his bed, leaving Eira to herself as she shoots him a short scowl before turning over and going back to bed. Their relationship has been deteriorating years now. However, what is a lonely man and his condescending wife supposed to do, they've been married since they were young and they only had each other.

He puts on his worn out jeans, faded and almost worn through at the knees. 'I'll need to get a new pair soon' he thinks to himself absentmindedly as he puts on his yellow button-up.

Joe headed downstairs, making himself some fresh coffee and a wheat bagel. His morning ritual just begun, he then walks around the kitchen to the window. The brown wood finch, startled by the sound of the window creaking open, jumps into the bush to hide. Joe turns around and makes sure to leave a cup of coffee for Eira on table, next to her glasses, just like every other morning.

The small, quiet town has slowly been growing the past couple of years. 'It's a wonder why anyone wants to move to this town,' Joe ponders to himself as he passes the town square where decorations for the coming town meeting were being hung. Eventually he makes it to the office building _Summers' Coal and Energy_.

"Good morning, Mr. Summers," said the new assistant secretary, "busy day ahead of you?" Joe crossed the entire office lobby, grabbing his workday file in the process, before answering "Morning Clara. Please just let me know when Harry arrives." The door to his office closed behind him, "Sure thing, Mr. Summers." Clara said in a frustrated tone.

Knock. Knock. The sound of robust knocks on the door snaps Joe out of his daze. 'Where did the time go, its already 4:30…' He moved a few of his papers around and pulled out a huge file with the big bold words **LOT. RECORDS **emblazoned on the front. "Come in," Joe said as he sat up in his chair, trying to look like he had been awake and not daydreaming as he had been minutes earlier.

"Mr. Graves is here to see you, Mr. Summers." Clara announced waiting to see if Joe would let her stay and help. "Thanks, Clara. You can go now." Joe said, Clara clearly feeling dejected backs out slowly and closes the door behind her.

"Evening, Harry. Let's get this started already, I feel like we'll be having a late night tonight." Groaned Joe as he motioned for Harry to sit down at the desk. "What no formalities?" Harry joked. The swearing in of Joe's position as Lottery Official was supposed to take place every year, but the oath he was supposed to take had long been forgotten, plus they stopped even pretending to hold this part of the ritual years ago.

Blank papers were laid on the desk. Harry began emptying his briefcase in order to get all the residential documents that the postmaster should be careful of keeping in order.

Joe walked to the corner of his office and picked the black box. The black box was delivered just days earlier from the local primary school. The preceding box had finally deteriorated to the point that its functionality was gone; he had for years talked of getting a new one, and finally here it was. Sturdy, heavy wood for the five sides and a thick layer of black paint made up the new box. The task was given to the students to help them feel closer to the long held tradition. And to remind us all, carved into the front of the black box was the old saying "Lottery in June, Corn Be Heavy Soon". The words were carved beautifully (obviously done by one of the teachers) and painted in bright red.

"They did well, don't you agree?" said Harry, admiring the box. "Yes, they did…" Joe replied, his words trailing off into an unintelligible mutter.

The crescent moon was high in the night sky by the time Harry and Joe had cut each slip of paper painstakingly by hand and gone over the town roster in order to make sure they had every family and every resident on it. "It seems like just the other day, our small town had a population of barely 300 people," Harry mused, "now we have just over 500. It'll be a long day tomorrow." Joe took a long look at Harry. "You know," Joe said, "We are one of the last towns to keep the lottery?" Harry shot him a quick look, "You don't mess with tradition, Joe. Just think about what will happen if our crops fail."

Joe looked down at all the slips of paper in front of him, each slip a hope and a curse. All of these little slips of paper are a pass for the towns people to continue the tradition and hope for good crops, all but one little slip of paper. That one piece of paper with the heavily penciled in dot; that one little slip was a condemnation. A condemnation for a tradition that no one knows the meaning of. The last person who might've remembered the reason from a time gone by was the lucky winner last year. Old Man Warner, for being such a stickler, had lived through almost ninety lotteries before he 'won'.

"I know, but I just feel like we need to keep up with the other towns. We are expanding after all." Joe replied, slowly moving all of the slips into the black box. "Joe, you always talk of progress. But what happened to the man who used to have energy and joviality every year during the lottery? It was you who decided we switch from those old pieces of wood to paper, and even though it took for the black box to pretty much fall apart, it was your idea to get a new, sturdier one built. Just look at it Joe, its all part of the tradition." Rebuked Harry. Joe looked at the moon out of the window, letting his mind wander just for a moment. "The tradition is important, but I lost my energy when I began to really notice that we have no idea why we are doing this. Old Man Warner was the only one who had the remotest idea, and now that he's gone…" Joe said, "I don't know, I just wonder if we are only going through the motions now."

Harry picked up the town roster and reached for the box, "The townspeople, for as much as they are afraid of being the winner of the lottery, they revel in not winning. The quiet life gets to them and they will be very reluctant to hear anything concerning the likes of what you are saying. Why don't you actually try and take part tomorrow, Joe? Get some rest." Harry picked up his stuff and left the office.

It was late and Joe was just standing there in his office. 'It's been years since I have picked up a stone,' he thought to himself. He moved the black box to the corner of his office and started on his way home.

The morning of June 27th was slightly overcast, a warm breeze blowing throughout the small and quiet town. Joe was standing there in the middle of the town square holding the black box; he just stood there with a half smile on his mouth. Slowly, as the townspeople began to gather, the whispers ran from person to person. "Why is he here before all of us?" "He looks like he's been up all night." "He looks like he's gone mad." Joe just stood there until Harry came about a quarter till 10 am with the three-legged stool on which the black box was to be set upon.

"You okay, Joe? You look like you didn't get any sleep." Harry asked, obviously worried. "I'm fine. I was just up late thinking." Replied Joe. They quickly set up for the big event.

Joe cleared his throat, the townspeople went quiet, "All right everyone, let's get this over with. It's a big crowd this year so try to be efficient.

"We all know how it goes, I read names and the heads of households come forward and take a slip of paper. Keep it folded until every family has a slip." Joe recited; it's always the same introduction.

The crowd grumbled in agreement. Uneasiness was evident on their faces, but this was just a façade, underneath it they were patiently waiting for the moment they could be the first to cast their stones.

Joe looked at his list of names and, raising one hand, began "Adams." The same small talk that occurred every time a name was called ensued; a quick comment here and there and a small, reserved smile followed by a quick grabbing of the slip of paper, just the typical routine that occurs every year. "Bentham… Dunbar… Graves."

Harry quietly stepped forward and took his slip of paper; it was hard not to notice the old saying on the box. "Lottery in June…" he said, glancing up at Joe. "Corn be heavy soon." Joe replied solemnly.

"Hutchinson… Jones…" The men quickly came up, took their paper and hurried back not daring to look into their hands.

"Summers." Joe stepped forward, looking at the crowd assembled before him he took his slip and stepped back.

"Watson… Zanini… Zaruba…" He looked over his list one last time and looked into the black box to make sure there were no more slips of paper. "All right, men. You may look."

The women, always the worriers, immediately began asking who had that damned slip with the dot. "It's got to be the Adams?" "Is it the Jones' this year?" Everyone speculated.

Slowly, the rumble got louder and louder as no one would step forward and show they had the slip. The crowd looked around frantically, their worry becoming lust. "Show yourself, coward! Who has the slip?!" Suddenly, the crowd went quiet as Joe stepped forward, that same half smile on his face from the morning. He slowly held up his slip, showing the small, dark dot. No one said a word.

"Eira, please join me up front." White as a sheet, she slowly walks past her neighbors, the townspeople, to the front of the crowd. The young kids standing close to their pile of stones, they throw her a quick glance before looking away.

The many wives of the townsmen murmured to themselves, "I hope Joe doesn't get it." "Eira looks so worried." "She's a scold anyways."

As Eira made her way to the center of the town square, Harry Graves collected the piece of paper with the heavy dot and pulled a blank one as well. Slowly he put them both into the black box, careful not to make eye contact with his dear old friend, Joe Summers.

"Okay, Harry. As the postmaster of this town I think its only fair that you take over as Lottery Official from here." Joe directed, carefully looking into the crowd. He could feel the anticipation from the crowd; they were getting restless of waiting. He spotted Clara, his secretary, a face as cold as stone. The ceremony had taken longer this year; it was almost two in the afternoon by the time Eira finally mustered the will to stand next to her husband.

"Ready, Joe?" Harry asked, a quick smile and a nod from Joe signified that he was to proceed.

"Eira, you first. Remember to keep the paper in your hand folded until I say so." Said Harry. Eira, timidly reached into the black box, much too big for the two measly papers it held, and felt around on the smooth bottom before tucking one of the slips in between her fingers. A clenched fist, she withdrew and held firmly to her side. "Joe," Harry looked him in the eye, "Your turn." Joe reached down and grabbed the paper, smiling his small half smile the entire time.

"All right," Harry started saying.

Time seemed to slow to a standstill. Joe, surveying the crowd could see the children emptying their pockets and now holding the small stones in their hands. The teens joking with one another, holding their own stones. Even the adults were beginning to get ready for the reveal.

The tension was reaching a breaking point. It didn't matter who actually won this year's lottery, at least it wasn't them. The frivolity of this long held tradition was lost on them. No more was there meaning to the old saying: Lottery in June, Corn Be Heavy Soon. To them, this was their release. A small quiet town, the last one to hold such traditions, will continue doing so. Men, women, children, everyone. So reluctant to let go, at least until its their own turn.

But now it was Joe Summers' turn, that along with his wife Eira. To him, it also didn't matter who held that little dark dotted paper. They were all condemned anyways. Besides, his wife was a scold who only stayed with him because she had no one else. Joe could see the potential for progress, but his actions could only get him so far. In a town where his visions didn't matter, would he even be missed?

No, no one is ever missed. Every person is just a cog in the machine that runs the sad lives of the sad people of that small and quiet, but still growing town. It never matters who wins the lottery, as long as someone does.

"Open."


End file.
